Wild in the Field by Jennifer Greene Read Free Book Online Page B

eyes, to feel his body rousing because of their closeness.
    Pete wanted her.
    It seemed an astounding revelation.
    She stared after him, but memories of Robert suddenly pushed into her mind—her lean, elegant Robert, with his city ways and boyish grin. He’d loved the night lights. So many Friday nights they’d gone clubbing, her in her highest heels and slinkiest black dress, Robert in his city-guy clothes. Robert could dance down the house when he got in the mood; he knew his wines, knew his music, knew all the cool places to go.
    Camille couldn’t imagine Pete giving a damn about “a cool place” in a thousand years. He was day-and-night from Robert in every way.
    Pete was lean himself, but when a man was built that tall and physical, he just wasn’t…elegant. His shoulders were as broad as a trunk. His skin had an earthy tan; his hair never looked brushed. He roared when he was mad, laughed from the belly when he was happy. Nothing scared Pete. He was elemental, earthy, wild himself.
    He made her think of male alpha wolves—of the kind of guy a woman was instinctively very, very careful around. Not for fear he’d hurt her, but for fear of being taken under by a force bigger than her, an emotional force, a sexual force.
    Camille shivered suddenly, and then abruptly, scowled. Elemental force? Where on earth was this horse hockey coming from? The damned man had left her with a filthy, vicious dog that no one could love orwant, and somehow managed to divert her attention for a couple seconds by kissing her senseless.
    Well—the next time she saw him, there’d be no kisses and no nonsense either. She whirled around, only to find Killer—alias Darby—snoozing on his side in the maple’s shade.
    If that wasn’t typical! Both males had wreaked total havoc on her day, and now one was sacked out and the other had walked away.
    She was simply going to ignore them both, and that was that.

Four
    W hen most women got kissed, Camille thought grimly, their mood perked up. At least if it had been a good kiss. And Pete’s kiss had certainly qualified as a humdinger.
    As she trudged toward the lavender fields, carrying a long-armed set of clippers, she could feel every creaky, cranky muscle in her body complaining. For three days, she’d been working nonstop in the lavender. Specifically, that was the same three days since Pete had brought her that dadblamed mangy dog and kissed her.
    Working herself into a state of exhaustion hadn’t made her forget Pete—but it was doing a fabulous job of completely wearing her out. It was also giving her something to do to earn her keep. The lavender appeared to be a thankless, ridiculous, hopeless job—but that just suited her mood, anyway. She wasn’t lookingfor meaningful. She was looking for something so mind-numbing and exhausting she’d be too tired to have nightmares.
    When she reached the crest of the hill, the late-afternoon sun was temporarily so blinding bright that it took several seconds before she realized she wasn’t alone. There were bodies in the lavender field. Two of them. Squinting, she realized they were boys. Both were hunkered down in the first row of the overgrown lavender, working with clippers—in fact, working with far better clippers than her own.
    In a single blink, she knew who they had to be. Pete’s sons. They were identifiably young teenagers—at an age when boys tripped over their own feet and their arms seemed longer than their whole bodies. But she could see Pete in their height, the strong bones and ruddy skin. Both had his brown hair, too, with that hint of mahogany in the sunlight.
    She clomped closer, building up a good head of steam. Obviously Pete had sent them over with the clippers. Her father would have labeled Pete a clishmaclaver —which was one of his Scottish terms for busybody. Doggone it, she hadn’t asked for his help. And she may have